


Follow Through

by DyrneKeeper, rm (arem)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: But they're all working on it, Chris Giacometti is the Whisper Network, M/M, Negotiations, Occassional breathtaking lack of communication, Polyamory, Slow Burn, polyamory fixes everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21822922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DyrneKeeper/pseuds/DyrneKeeper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/arem/pseuds/rm
Summary: Follow through: Victor Nikiforov doesn't have it.Also, Chris is tired, Yuri is a mess, Otabek thinks too much, and Yuuri just wants everyone to fix their shit.
Relationships: Christophe Giacometti/Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Otabek Altin/Christophe Giacometti, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Magical world without homophobia or legal restrictions on same-sex relationships, apparently. Also we messed with the timeline vs the canon year the show takes place in because we wanted more Olympic years.

**World Figure Skating Championships  
March 2016**

Nobody looks the same off the ice as on it. Chris knows that, knows that the space between competitor/performer and human being is real and exists, no matter how narrowly sometimes (see: Victor). 

Still, he doesn't realize right away that the quiet-to-the-point-of-silent guy who skates like he's trying to will his way through a brick wall and the guy with the black eyes and the leather jacket are one and the same. In fact, he doesn’t notice Otabek Altin at all until he comes out of nowhere and blows away everyone else to come in third to Victor’s gold and his own silver. But he doesn’t care until he sees him shrug the leather jacket on over his team one at the very end of the event.

If Otabek is at the banquet that night, though, Chris doesn’t see him. Of course, he hardly gets the chance to look. As soon as he walks into the room Victor pounces, wrapping one arm around his waist and steering him through the whirl of people. Everyone looks at them; of course they do. They look good together, and even if they didn’t, they’re still Victor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti, legendary playboy terrors of the senior men’s division and, right now, the two best skaters in the world.

“We’re going to be on top of the world forever, you and me,” Victor says later that night, not for the first time. Chris has him pushed up against a wall in his hotel room; Victor’s cheeks are flushed and his hair is a wreck from Chris’s hands.

Chris agrees, but saying it out loud seems like tempting fate. Instead he digs his teeth into the soft skin above Victor’s clavicle. Kind of Victor to always wear such high-necked costumes, even for the exhibitions. Chris rarely has to worry about visible bruises. Victor hisses his appreciation, and his hands spasm on Chris’s sides, shoved up under his suit jacket but over his shirt, which for some reason are both still on. 

“Nobody else can touch us,” Victor goes on, while Chris attends to the work of getting them to a more satisfactory state of undress. “All that’s left is bronze and they all know it.”

 _And is silver all that’s left for me?_ The thought strikes Chris, sudden and unexpected, as he finally gets them both naked and turns Victor around so he can shove him down on the bed. Victor goes, laughing and pulling Chris after him. Am I supposed to be your second for the rest of our careers?

He forgets the traitorous thought in the feel of Victor, under and around him. But the shadow of it lingers through the next day as they both, hungover and worse for wear, suffer through gala practice and the never ending media circus. Victor may be the best in the world at figure skating, but he’s shit at everything else. Especially other people. And Chris, much as he loves him, has never been blind to that. Has, in fact, suffered frequently from it. But Chris does his thing and Victor does his, and they talk and they text and they crash back together whenever they’re in the same place. It works.

They part after Worlds with a kiss on the cheek and their usual promise to talk soon. Victor always comes to visit him in the off-season; it’s one of the highlights of Chris’s year. 

Forty-eight hours later, back in Switzerland, Chris is lying on the couch with his cat on his chest and a book in his hands. He has exactly nothing to do, and plans to do exactly that until dinner, where he will not have to adhere to a meal plan, and then he is going to sleep forever because he doesn’t have to get up for training in the morning. It’s going to be great.

Except then his phone starts dinging, different notification sounds for different apps, and Chris fumbles his phone out from between the couch cushions and unlocks it. His cat glares at him; he scritches her gently behind the ears as he tries to figure out what has multiple group chats so incensed two days after Worlds. Did somebody get hurt?

Victor’s in Japan. Victor We’ll-Be-On-Top-of-the-World-Forever Nikiforov is taking next year off. Chris squints through the slew of emojis and exclamation marks and tries to figure it out. Victor is going to...coach? Yuuri Katsuki.

_Huh._

None of it makes sense; all of it makes a cold ball of hurt settle somewhere behind Chris’s ribs. Victor might have warned him. 

_Japan, eh?_ He texts Victor.

He doesn’t get a text back.

**Grand Prix Final  
December 2016**

The next time Chris sees Otabek, it’s at the Grand Prix Final, where he and the Russian Yuri are making headlines for something involving a motorcycle. The motorcycle angle is interesting; cutting in on whatever Former Soviet Bloc Dynamic Duo those two have going on is much less so. Also it turns out that Otabek really doesn’t _talk_ , even when they’re all just hanging out, and then it turns out that Victor and Yuuri are -- engaged? Possibly? There are rings that weren’t there when Chris was hanging out with Victor at the pool and crashing their room the day before. They seem happy, although Chris suspects someone, probably Victor, failed to have an important conversation at some point along the line. 

What else, apparently, is new?

**January 2017**

Victor returns to competition convinced that, having brought the world a new and improved Yuuri Katsuki, he'll be welcomed back onto the ice as a conquering hero. Instead, he loses to Little Yuri at Russian Nationals while Katsuki only manages to take Japanese nationals because everyone else is an utter disaster. Chris takes Swiss Nationals, but mentally collapses for Europeans, coming in seventh. Otabek somehow winds up with gold at Four Continents, bringing new levels of stultification to the winners' press conference, which Chris watches half-drunk which his coach. He pulls it together enough for Worlds to come in fourth, while Victor and his Yuris take the podium.

By the end of the season, Chris hates everyone. Himself most especially. And that's before Victor and Katsuki have a not-remotely-secret wedding he isn't invited to -- guess they sorted out that drama with the rings after all.

He finds out first from Instagram, because Victor is legitimately the worst person on the planet, and then of course from their mutual friends, which are...most of their friends. It's not like it's a small wedding either. 

Little Yuri goes, and that's a weird thing to imagine even apart from the rest, that demon managing to behave himself for an entire evening. Otabek is there too, possibly as Yurio's plus-one if their joint selfies are anything to go by. Mila, and Victor's coach, and other people from the Russian contingent. Lots of the Japanese skaters Katsuki's presumably friendly with. And Chulanont, of course. 

Just...not Chris. And it's not like they've stopped speaking to him. Victor still texts him occasionally, especially pictures of dogs he meets in Hasetsu. Yuuri and Victor both had messaged him to congratulate him on the Nationals gold. 

Chris contemplates all the passive-aggressive ways he could point out what a massive asshole Victor is being. (He doesn't blame Yuuri, it's not his job to manage his now-husband's relationships). But they all take too much mental energy and after the rollercoaster this season has been, he just wants to get his brain to any sort of normal.

There’s just one problem, which is that the way he usually gets his head screwed back on at the end of a season is to screw Victor, repeatedly. Usually when he comes to visit him in Switzerland. They spend a week -- or two -- in bed together in Chris’s family’s middle-of-nowhere chalet, kissing and fucking and laughing themselves sick about their deeply ridiculous, beautiful lives. Chris realizes, grimly, that he is absolutely, definitely going to need a new plan.

So he trains relentlessly through the entire summer. If the season never ends, then he doesn’t have to be furious at Victor for not showing up on schedule. The issue isn’t even the sex. It’s that Victor is, more or less -- apparently less -- his best friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**CS Autumn Classic  
September 2017**

"Hey! Asshole!"

Otabek takes his time in turning around, because there is only one person who could possibly be hollering like that at him down the back hallway of the arena. "Yura."

"You never texted me back!" Yuri accuses, and Otabek is suddenly engulfed in a whirlwind of flying hair and lanky limbs, both longer than he remembers from last winter. He freezes, and then realizes Yuri is going for a hug, not an attack. He squeezes him back tightly. 

"I did text you back. Frequently." Daily, in fact. When Otabek had picked his friend he had not quite factored in Yuri’s relentless social media use. Or the number of cat-related snapchats one human being could send in a day.

"Not right away." Yuri shoves back and glares at him. Otabek wonders if he knows how much that makes him look like an angry kitten, or if he really does think it makes him look intimidating. He resists the urge to tell him he’s scarier when he doesn’t try so hard.

"You never specified your preferred response time. Also, I was working."

"So was I," Yuri snaps, as if the existence of Otabek's work ethic is a slight on his own.

“And now it’s good to see you too,” Otabek says pointedly. They’re getting ready for the practice session before the Autumn Classic. This hallway is not empty. And since he and Yuri are the top two skaters at this event by miles, they really should behave with something like decorum while other people are around.

“Tch. Do you have a bike here?” Yuri asks, falling into step with him as they walk towards the rink. 

“Not yet. Haven’t had time.”

“You should fix that.”

Otabek does, and they go for a ride the next night after the short program. He’s currently in first. Yuri is in second and absolutely furious. At himself, more than Otabek, he suspects, but that’s because he remembers being sixteen and disappointed. And because he remembers, he doesn’t give Yuri any platitudes about the free program being where it counts or about how he should channel his emotions into his work when he gets back home. It is and he will, regardless of tomorrow’s outcome, and saying it won’t change anything. So he doesn’t say anything, and instead lets Yuri rant against his back and lets the high-key energy of the day drain out of his body as they wind through the city. He thinks he can feel the tension drain from Yuri, too; at least the arms around his waist and the fingers digging into his jacket loosen, just a little.

Of course, Yuri absolutely trounces him and everyone else the next day. Otabek is immensely proud of him. It’s going to be a fun season. Absolutely deadly, probably, with Yuri and Yuuri Katsuki in the mix, not to mention Victor back in the bracket, but Otabek has always most enjoyed fighting when the odds against him were the highest.

They go for another ride that night. Otabek doesn’t know where Yuri’s coach thinks he is and doesn’t ask; he suspects so much fraternizing might not be appreciated. His own coach is just glad he’s not going out alone. 

When they reach the park on the Île Bizard, they find a bench and sit shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the river to the lights of the city beyond. It’s nice to have someone to sit so quietly with, who doesn’t mind if all he adds by way of conversation is a nod whenever Yuri makes a particularly scathing remark about someone. Usually JJ. 

Eventually, the dry itchiness behind his eyes lets him know he’s more tired than the adrenaline of the day wants him to think. He’s about to suggest they head back to the hotel when Yuri tugs at his sleeve. Otabek turns, ready to look at whatever Yuri’s pointing out -- and is met with Yuri’s mouth, warm and determined, on his own.

“Hey.” He pulls back, suddenly wide awake again. “Yura, what?”

“I kissed you, motherfucker,” Yuri spits out.

“Yes, I know that.”

“Then why’d you ask?” He looks very young and very hurt, and all the anger in the world can’t disguise either of those facts.

“I--” Otabek has no idea what to say. Has never found himself in this kind of predicament, or anything like it. “I’m not looking for anything like that right now.”

“Maybe I just wanted to make out.”

“Maybe I didn’t.”

Something flares in Yuri’s eyes. “If this is because you think I’m young --”

You are young, Otabek thinks, but does not say. We both are. But that’s not it. “No, it’s not.”

“What is it then?”

Otabek touches Yuri’s face. It’s the worst possible thing to do, but they’re in a moment whether he wants to be or not. Color rises on Yuri’s cheeks, visible even in the dark. “This isn’t going to help me win. Or you.”

“It won’t affect me,” Yuri says. The insult in it, that Yuri’s skill is impervious to distraction and Otabek’s isn’t, is front and center. 

Otabek would roll his eyes -- Yuri in a relationship might be the one thing that would make him beatable -- but it’s not worth it. Even in an Olympic year. “Well, fine. It’ll affect me. So if you want to hang around, just don’t. Okay?”

Sullenly, surprisingly, Yuri agrees.

When they get back on the bike, Yuri’s a beat too slow to wrap his arms around him. Otabek does roll his eyes, then, because Yuri can’t see him, and snaps “Hold _on._ ” He’s not going to get the Russian Ice Tiger scraped off the side of the road. 

Yuri does. There’s no point in wishing anything was different, so Otabek doesn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**October 2017  
Rostelecom Cup**

Chris has just checked in to the hotel in Moscow and is making his way to the elevators when Victor falls into step beside him and slips an arm around his waist. Victor is wearing an immaculate suit, even though it’s only ten in the morning and nothing official is happening until this afternoon. Chris has been in transit all night, including a long drive to the airport and a fairly unpleasant flight from Geneva; he knows he looks like shit.

Chris has to stop walking to remove Victor’s arm or he's going to drop his luggage. "Victor."

Victor starts to lean in for a hug but rocks back on his heel when he realizes Chris isn’t into it. He tips his head to one side. "Hello to you too."

"I just got in," Chris says, gesturing uselessly to his roller bag. "What do you want?"

"To say hello!"

Chris doesn't know how to do this. He also doesn't know how not to do this. "Hello then. And also congratulations on your marriage." 

Victor bites his lip. "Chris --"

He cuts him off, because he’s been thinking about this for almost a year now and has rehearsed at least thirty versions of this conversation. "Whatever we're doing is fine, but I'd like to know what it is, how we got here, and why I wasn't invited to the wedding. Except, preferably not right now because I'm jetlagged and we're in a hotel lobby."

"But we always --"

Chris does not want him to finish that sentence. "I don't have to be talking to you to be on top of the world with you, Victor." 

As he walks away into the elevator, he hears Victor call after him, "I didn't know how to ask."

Chris jams his thumb into the button for his floor. "Obviously," he says to no one in particular.

***

The official practice for the long program is over, and Otabek is debating whether he should get on the shuttle back to the hotel and sleep, or if he should take a walk and maybe find lunch somewhere, when he stumbles, almost literally, into Chris.

He apologizes, reflexively, in Russian.

“It’s fine,” Chris says, in English, which surprises him. With the history he and Victor reportedly share, he thought he’d have more Russian. 

Maybe it’s that surprise that makes him abandon his initial plan of slipping away as efficiently as possible and, instead, asks "How are you?" 

He uses the question as an American does, as a greeting, not as an actual inquiry. It's not that he doesn't care about people, he just doesn’t usually want the responsibility of having that much information about someone's state of being.

Chris keeps his head back against the wall where he'd been leaning and swivels his gaze to Otabek. It's sort of louche, because Chris is always sort of louche. "Tired," he says. "I am so tired."

Otabek tries not to sigh. He knows what happens next. He'll ask why out of polite concern and Chris will natter on about some sexual exploit or make a pass at him. "You should try to rest more before competitions."

Chris huffs. "Not sleepy. Tired. Existentially tired."

“I’m sorry?” Otabek doesn’t know the word. English is his third language.

“Ah.” Chris seems to be considering how to rephrase. “Tired in my soul,” he finally settles on.

In his pocket, Otabek’s phone chirps. Yuri, probably. His first Grand Prix event isn’t for another couple of weeks, and he’s been texting Otabek almost continually since Rostelecom started. 

Otabek thinks he knows what Chris means. "It's been a rough year," he observes, a sort of nothing statement that is at least sympathetic and an invitation to talk more if Chris wants. He doesn’t want to talk about his own problems, like how he’s no longer sure how much Yuri’s sharp taunts are real jabs or just the way he conducts his life in which no one ever taught him to slow down and take a breath.

"What would you know about it?" Chris doesn't snap, because Chris never snaps, but he's annoyed. “Also the year has barely started.”

Otabek reminds himself that this is why he doesn’t talk to people as a rule. Walking away now would be... rude and preferable. 

"If you're asking if my year has been easier, it probably hasn’t been. And I've got to... go." He trails off awkwardly and wanders away just ask awkwardly. He's not fast enough to miss Chris passive aggressively waving at him as he goes.

He wonders if Yuri, when he finally sees him again at the final -- assuming they both make the final -- is going to be more or less pleasant by comparison.


	4. Chapter 4

**October 2017  
Rostelecom Cup**

The banquet is a disaster, because the banquet is always a disaster. It starts out boring, with mediocre food no one is willing to eat much of mid-season. People huddle with their countrymates, listen to a series of speeches of which only about a third are worthwhile -- usually because someone is making a valiant but not great effort in a language they barely know. Chris isn’t judging; he just knows his limits.

No one believes this about him, of course, because he lives his life loudly and in public. That’s fine. It lets him get away with what he wants to get away with and be left alone otherwise. He’s worked hard for that equilibrium and he’s proud of himself for working hard not to fuck people he doesn’t want to fuck or consume alcohol he doesn’t want to consume. His first couple of years at the senior level were personally… not great. At least the bad choices he had made with Victor were the ones he made enthusiastically.

He sighs and looks around the room. Without Katsuki here, he should probably let Victor try to explain himself, but he doesn’t see the point. Life changes. Friends drift. That the demise of whatever he and Victor were is ugly instead of bittersweet is just some unpleasant details mixed up with its awkward inevitability. They’ll still hold each other too close when they have to pose for photos; that’s a habit from looping their arms around each other’s waists at podiums that will never fade.

What will also never fade is the endless parade of young skaters in, or just come up from, juniors and not knowing how to handle… well, anything. It’s not their fault. Competing at this level doesn’t train you for anything other than skating. Making small talk, navigating relationships of all sorts, and knowing when not to get involved in a round of toasts being led by the Russian contingent is not anyone’s early strong suit.

Tonight it’s the junior Latvian skater who looks like he’s about to be the poster child for alcohol poisoning, an angry federation, or worse. There’s a circle of ice dancers and some of the other singles skaters playing sort of drinking game. Unfortunately, it seems that the point of the game is less about getting drunk generally than about getting the wide-eyed teenager -- Chris thinks his name is Aivis -- drunk specifically. Chris doesn’t think that anyone is trying to do harm so much as skaters are a self-involved lot. Hell, Chris would be being self-involved if he and Victor were currently speaking to each other. But as it is, this looks like it might end badly, and Chris needs a distraction. Which is apparently other people’s woes.

He drifts closer to the group, considering his options and wondering if anyone else -- somebody’s coach, maybe -- is going to step in and deal with this. Victor is nowhere in sight; ducked out early, maybe. Chris watches for another thirty seconds until a shout of laughter emerges from the group and Aivis sways precariously. Chris slips into the circle of people and touches the kid’s shoulder lightly.

“Hey. Are you okay?” he asks.

Aivis turns wide, slightly glassy eyes toward Chris. The answer, whether he can articulate it or not, is clearly no.

“Do you want me to find your coach?”

The kid -- he’s sixteen? Maybe seventeen? -- shakes his head vehemently. Which, okay, that’s fair. Nobody wants to end their first Grand Prix event by getting chewed out by their coach for getting trashed at the banquet.

“All right. Let’s get you back to your room then. Who are you staying with?”

“Hey, he was having fun!” one of the other guys says.

“I don’t think you’re his type, Giacometti,” somebody else puts in. One of the ice dancers. Chris really hates ice dancers. He is also really, really pissed, because people who are assholes to kids are his least favorite assholes.

Aivis sways into his side, half a second away from losing his feet entirely. Chris grips him by his upper arm.

“I think you’re going to leave him alone,” he says, in the pleasant-but-deadly way that has scared off people with worse judgement and boundaries than this. “And I’m not going to tattle. But, just so you know, a toe out of line to anyone about anything? And everyone will know about this in the least charitable way I can possibly paint it.”

One of them starts to protest.

Chris shushes them sharply. “Understand this: I am the whisper network.”

He steers Aivis away from the group. He’s supporting most of his weight, it feels like, but he’s small and skinny and hardly seems to weigh anything at all. As they make their way toward the door of the ballroom, Chris looks around for someone who might know the kid and where he should be deposited for the night. There’s a shadow at the corner of his eye and he turns sharply, almost knocking Aivis off-balance, ready to snap at one of those assholes for following them. Except it’s Otabek.

“Beka!” the kid cries, and nearly flings himself into Otabek’s arms. Otabek oofs softly, but catches him, though he’s barely bigger than he is.

“You know each other?” Chris asks, more baffled by this turn of events than by anything preceding it.

“We do summer training camp together,” Otabek says as calmly as if they were discussing a mutual acquaintance over coffee. “Aivis, you okay?”

The kid replies, in a language Chris doesn’t speak but Otabek apparently does, because there’s a quiet but rapid -- and somewhat slurred, on the Aivis’s part -- exchange that ends with Otabek looking at Chris and switching back to English. “I’ll get him back to his room.”

“Good,” Chris says with a nod. “Thank you,” he adds, although that sentiment doesn’t entirely make sense. Then he swipes a glass of water off the nearest table and shoves it at them, although the kid will be lucky if he’s sober before he has to get to the airport tomorrow.

After that exciting interlude, there’s not much left to do at the banquet. Victor certainly hasn’t come back, and Chris decides he’s earned enough good karma to leave early. He retreats to his room, where he showers and then checks that his costumes are airing out properly and haven’t lost too many crystals. They haven’t, of course, because E6000 is magic, but he likes to be sure. He’s just finishing his inspection when there’s a knock at his door.

It’s Victor; it has to be. Chris is so sure of that, and so distracted by trying to think of what to say to him, that he doesn’t even check through the peephole before he opens the door.

It is, in fact, not Victor. It is -- again to his surprise -- Otabek.

“Oh,” Chris says.

“Hi,” Otabek says, his hands in his pockets.

Chris mentally recalibrates, or at least tries to. The lines of Otabek’s suit are still neat, but his hair is ruffled, and there’s a flush on his cheeks that doesn’t quite match Chris’s default mental image of his (admittedly impressive) resting bitch face. He looks like somebody Chris might be able to take apart, and once that idea has occurred to him he suddenly realizes that he wants to take him apart.

Chris was not in any way prepared for this, but he’s definitely prepared to make the most of it.

“You want to come in?” he asks, standing back to give him room. Otabek nods and follows him in.

“Lucky I’m alone,” Chris says, making sure the door doesn’t slam closed behind them. “Lucky for me, I mean.”

Otabek makes an annoyed sound. “I’m not here for that.”

That’s...disappointing. But the night is still young. At least Chris has a few hours before he should start seriously thinking about packing.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Otabek says, standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room. “For helping Aivis. That could have gotten ugly.”

Chris waves that away. “Ice dancers are the worst. It was the least I could do. Is he all right?”

Otabek nods. “He’ll wake up with a hell of a hangover, but it wasn’t too bad. He’s got water and painkillers and his roommate came back halfway through, so he’s not alone at least.”

“You would have stayed with him otherwise?”

Otabek blinks at him, like the answer is obvious. “Of course.”

“I’m very glad the roommate came back.”

Otabek rolls his eyes. Then he tips his head to the side. “Wait. I have a question.”

Chris raises an eyebrow.

“Why are you alone?”

Chris actually has to stop himself from flirting on autopilot in response. Because that’s clearly not going to get him anywhere at this point, and it’s not going to feel good.

“I was just thinking about heading out,” he says, but it’s a weak bit of improv.

Otabek clearly realizes it. “Try again.”

Chris decides not to question why Otabek, who he has maybe had three conversations with in the extent of their acquaintance, cares enough to call out his bullshit. “Victor got married, and I still came in second to him. Again. Which are both asshole things to complain about.” Particularly when Otabek had come third to both of them, also again.

Otabek, however, seems to be considering that seriously. “You’ve been doing this a long time. I wouldn’t want to come in second to him like that either.”

Chris gives half a laugh at that and drops down to sit on the bed. He waves for Otabek to take a seat; he does so, perching on the edge of the other twin bed.

“So what are you doing here?” Chris asks. “Other than saying thank you?”

“Did I need another reason?”

“Here’s where we trade confidences, Otabek. That’s how conversation works.”

Otabek gives him a look that might have been a glare if he didn’t suddenly look so tired. “You’re not the only one staring down a career of watching a Russian prodigy always climb the podium before you.”

“Plisetsky?”

Otabek nods.

“He seems slightly less likely to run off and get married like Victor did. I mean, don’t get me wrong, one out of two there will still suck.”

“Hm.” Otabek seems to consider that. “No, not for a few years at least.”

“And that’s the problem, is it?” Chris is suddenly positive that it is, and that’s an interesting new wrinkle. The stricken look on Otabek’s face confirms in.

“I’m not -- we’re not,” he says, but can’t seem to find the words for what he is -- or isn’t. “I won’t, and he’s pissed,” he finally says.

Chris nods slowly. “I’d been wondering, what was between the two of you.”

“Why?”

“Barcelona. The bike. Most of the internet has been wondering.”

“Ah.”

“Are you straight?” Chris asks abruptly.

Otabek laughs, hard. It’s sort of charming.

Chris chuckles. “Okay. What’s the deal, then?”

“He’s feral, he’s a child, and relationships are not how to win.”

Chris is impressed. “Well. I can detect no lies there.”

“Did you decide not to go to the wedding, or did you not get invited?”

The conversational one-eighty feels like whiplash. Chris stares.

Otabek shrugs a shoulder. “I was there. Your absence was conspicuous, and, well, since you mentioned it.”

Chris sighs. “I wasn’t invited. I don’t know why. I don’t think Katsuki knows why. I’m nearly sure Victor doesn’t even know why.”

“Did you ask?”

“Jesus. No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not all as blunt as you.”

“You used to be together, right?”

“Like I said. Blunt.” There’s something at the corner of Otabek’s mouth that might be a smile. Chris decides he likes it. “It was complicated,” he says. “And I was managing my feelings about it, but now I feel discarded and I'm either really depressed or really angry, and I am sick of everything about this life that has been my entire life, but I don't know how to do anything else."

Otabek reaches out and covers Chris’s hand with his own. Reflexively, Chris turns his hand palm-up so their fingers interlock. The touch sends a bolt down his arm, and when he raises his eyes again, Otabek is gazing at him intently.

“You’re a beautiful skater,” Otabek says. “So just… skate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains technically underage drinking. 
> 
> Also, Chris may not be, but we are actually very fond of ice dancers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warsaw, Poland  
November 2017**

It's the charity exhibition the ISU holds every year. Chris is there because it's close to home and the break from his training schedule is A Good Thing, especially in an Olympic year. Victor is there because he never misses an opportunity to perform, and also Chris is pretty sure he could wash out at both the Grand Prix and Russian Nationals and still get named to Team Russia for the Games. Otabek is there...Chris isn't really sure why he's there, actually, but he's glad he is.

Katsuki isn't, presumably because skipping unnecessary travel and work this close to the GPF is reasonable. Plisetsky isn't, presumably because his coaches aren't letting him off his leash until he makes Team Russia or dies trying. Without those two personalities, something vital feels like it’s missing from the group on the ice. Chris is sure he’s not the only one who senses it.

Exhibition skating means rehearsals with everyone when they’re all tired from their own training and questioning their life choices. Victor is in charge of one group number, because of course he is, and he and the retired American ice dancer in charge of the other one are engaged in jocular, thousand-watt-smile debates over tone and balance.

It would be funny if Chris weren’t still so pissed. As it is, he can’t help throwing some of his own -- not inconsiderable -- weight behind the ice dancer’s ideas.

He doesn’t hate _all_ ice dancers, really.

While they argue, Otabek skates patterns around the rink, ignoring everyone else -- or seeming to. That’s what Chris used to think. Now, he just thinks it’s because Otabek doesn’t know what to say.

*

After lunch, while Phichit is hectoring Victor over something, Otabek finally gets a chance to check his phone, leaning over the boards by his water bottle and what he thinks is Chris's jacket. He ignores a voicemail from his mother and messages from Yuri for now, and thumbs over his thread with Inkar.

 **inkar-sadykova :** Beka did you get in okay  
 **inkar-sadykova :** Your mom's asking  
 **otabek-altin :** Yes. I texted her from the airport.  
 **otabek-altin :** That was hours ago. Apparently. And now you’re not answering your phone.  
 **otabek-altin :** I’ve been in rehearsal all day.  
 **inkar-sadykova :** i'll pass it on!  
 **otabek-altin :** thanks.  
 **inkar-sadykova :** Also say hi to Chris for ussssssss.  
 **otabek-altin :** Why?  
 **inkar-sadykova :** Because he's hot. Duh.  
 **otabek-altin :** What about Nikiforov?  
 **inkar-sadykova :** Not my type.  
 **inkar-sadykova :** Or yours, for that matter ;)

It had been a mistake, Otabek reflects, to tell Inkar about Chris rescuing Aivis at the Rostelecom banquet. His entire family took an interest in skating. But Inkar actually skated herself, and she, Sofia, and Aruzhan -- the cousins with whom he shared an apartment in Almaty -- followed the sport far too closely for his comfort. Mostly because it meant they knew the players involved far too well. His mother has even told him, more than once, that he was welcome to invite Yuri to visit any time, and he has never once voluntarily mentioned Yuri's name in front of her.

Otabek has absolutely no intention of delivering Inkar’s message to Chris, even assuming they end up talking again. Easy teasing within his family, among the cousins he grew up with like siblings, is one thing; interacting with that level of familiarity with other members of the skating community is something else entirely.

Even if Chris is more familiar with Otabek than he’s used to people being. And then there’s also Yuri, who is as persistent as he is unforgettable. It’s a complicated combination, and Otabek opens his missed texts from him with some trepidation. It’s not much -- complaints about his training schedule, complaints about Victor, complaints about the weather -- there’s very little Yuri won’t complain about -- and, most recently, a picture of his cat.

 **otabek-altin :** I see you survived another day of training after all.

Yuri’s response is immediate. Otabek spares a thought to picture him in his bedroom at Lilia’s, the only part of the place he ever sees during their Skype calls.

 **yuri-plisetsky :** Shut up. We can’t all fuck off to Poland whenever we feel like it.  
 **otabek-altin :** It’s not vacation.  
 **yuri-plisetsky :** I know. It’s an ice show, THAT’S WORSE.  
 **otabek-altin :** You’ve done ice shows.  
 **yuri-plisetsky :** I know. So I know.  
 **otabek-altin :** It’s a good break. If I run my program another time this week I swear my legs are going to fall off.  
 **yuri-plisetsky :** Ah yes. So relaxing instead to skate group numbers choreographed by Victor Nikiforov.

Otabek snorts to himself, and sends back a laughing emoji.

 **yuri-plisetsky :** See? You know he’s bad.  
 **otabek-altin :** He’s brilliant.  
 **yuri-plisetsky :** UGH  
 **yuri-plisetsky :** I’m going to go stretch  
 **yuri-plisetsky :** Enjoy your endless crossovers punctuated by the occasional single jump.

Otabek doesn’t tease Yuri about being jealous that he’s not there, because, he suspects, he is. Instead, when it’s his turn to run through his number -- last year’s exhibition program, nothing fancy -- he skates over to Chris.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asks.

Chris looks somewhat surprised to be addressed, but nods. “Almost certainly. What is it?”

Otabek holds out his phone. “Film my practice?”

“Of course.” Chris takes the phone from him with a smile. “Who’s the video for? Not Insta, surely.”

Otabek ignores the jibe. Some days he thinks it would be easier to have an actual social media presence just so he didn’t have to have so many conversations about how he doesn’t.

“Yuri,” he says. “I don’t want him to feel left out.” The admission feels rude, somehow -- asking Chris to do something for Otabek so Otabek can do something for Yuri doesn’t quite seem fair. But lying would be worse.

Chris’s gaze is assessing, but his smile stays warm. “No problem.”

The video takes forever to upload on the venue’s crappy WiFi, and doesn’t get marked as sent until rehearsal is over. Yuri doesn’t respond until that night, when Otabek’s getting dressed for the post-show dinner and Yuri really should be asleep that he sends back a skate emoji and a thumbs up.

 **yuri-plisetsky :** I like that number better in person

High praise, in Yuri’s backhanded way.

 _Thank you_ , Otabek replies, and straightens his tie.

*

At the dinner -- which, because it’s a charity event, involves more than the usual contingent of skaters and staff -- Chris and Otabek's casual conversation slowly drifts to a corner, mainly in an effort not to be overheard. Otabek, it turns out, has _feelings_ about the ISU’s tendency to punish the use of certain types of music. And sure, don’t they all -- they all have at least one piece, maybe more, their coaches have told them they _can_ skate to but shouldn’t -- but Otabek has a deep grasp both of music theory and systemic bullshit and Chris is certain he’s never heard him put so many words together all at once. He revels in it.

Chris doesn't understand why they always talk about serious things, because they don't actually know each other that well, but they seem to bring it out in each other. He's not sure if Victor skulking around and keeping an eye on them is making that worse or better. All Chris knows is he's getting pissed off about it, and if Victor wants some sort of sign from the universe, Chris is happy to give him one.

He reaches out for Otabek's hand. "I will make this up to you later, but can you do me a favor and just run with whatever right now?" He glances at Victor by way of explanation.

Otabek rolls his eyes but grips Chris's hand tightly. Then he leans in to whisper, "I have a better idea. Let's get out of here."

Chris, even though he is almost sure he's not actually about to get laid, doesn't need to be told twice. Even the five percent odds, especially with Otabek's hand tight on his wrist now, seems really awesome. They get more awesome when Otabek pushes Chris into the elevator ahead of him. If there is sex, it's going to be _so good._

But Otabek stares firmly at the elevator doors as they ride up to the floor all the skaters are on. "Whatever it is we're on the precipice of doing, we're not doing if it exists only to irritate Victor Nikiforov," he says.

It's a fair statement, but Chris makes a vague choking noise because he has fucked up and doesn't know what to say.

The elevator doors open, and Otabek strides ahead of him. "Anything you have to say for yourself can wait until we're in someone's room."

They pass Chris’s room first, and he nods Otabek towards it and unlocks the door. Otabek follows him in.

"I am not doing this to piss him off," Chris says as soon as the door swings shut behind them.

"It's just an attractive side bonus?" Otabek asks.

"Kind of, yeah,” Chris admits. “Though I mean, I would have preferred he wasn't paying attention to us at all at the banquet."

"Really?” Otabek shoots Chris a dark look. “You who like the spotlight more than anyone?"

"What's that supposed to mean?” Chris bristles. “We're all doing the same work here. Nobody signed up for all this pain just to skate in the damn dark."

"You have a reputation."

"We all have reputations!"

"I don't."

"Really? The bad boy who thinks he's too good for all this and wants everyone to know it? We all have reputations. If you can't deal with mine that's fi --"

Otabek's mouth is on his, and he's shoved up against the wall, before he can even finish the thought. And it's so, so incredibly good. Because being taken apart by someone is the only way he can imagine shaking off Victor's bullshit or this completely useless argument. This may prove to be a wild disaster by the time they're done, but right now, Chris just wants to melt into it and be grateful.

Otabek pulls away from him and for a moment Chris is extremely worried that they are either going to go back to their argument or Otabek is going to storm out.

Otabek instead does… nothing. Just stands there, too close and half-pressed against him. Chris knows one way to solve this, but somehow just grabbing Otabek and making fast work of whatever this is between them doesn’t seem like the right answer.

“What are we doing?” Chris asks softly. That’s another thing. He doesn’t want to startle him.

“This, apparently,” he says. He’s breathless, which Chris appreciates. “But… ground rules.”

Okay, Chris can work with that. Sex that needs ground rules is usually at least interesting. “Go on.”

“Don’t close your eyes, don’t pretend I’m someone else, don’t take out all this other bullshit on me.”

Chris’s breath catches. Which is a bit stupid because really, it’s just an intensely fair request considering the context that got them here. But it still feels romantic, just a little bit, and Chris loves to be loved. Otabek didn’t say he couldn’t pretend about that.

“Okay,” Chris says and reaches out to touch Otabek’s face. Because love looks like certain gestures. He knows that from all the people he’s gone to bed with and from years of learning to tell stories on the ice. “But if we’re not going to do this while being angry or careless, can we at least get naked and move things to the bed?”

Off the ice, skaters are clumsy. They’re shorter than they are in skates, the heels of their shoes change the angles at which their bodies work, and the world around them moves too slowly and in straight lines instead of curves. Which is to say he and Otabek trying to get undressed as quickly as they want is an utter disaster of extremely comical proportions.

They’re both laughing, the argument about Victor forgotten, by the time they fall onto the bed together. Otabek peers at Chris like he’s a puzzle to solve, which is a more thoughtful sort of attention than he’s usually granted. Chris knows how this is going to go -- a bit of making out, some combination of hand jobs and blow jobs with maximum efficiency, fifteen very pleasant minutes of afterglow, and then an awkward departure.

Except that’s not what happens. Somehow, they get lost in each other: Chris determined to drag his open mouth over every inch of Otabek’s flesh and Otabek, in turn, using his nails on whatever part of Chris he can reach. Chris is still right about how they get off -- Otabek’s hands, his mouth -- but by the time they get there every inch of his skin is on desperate fire.

And he hasn’t closed his eyes. Not once, except to blink.

It’s different, begging, when you can see someone watching your face and all the whys behind that being what you need.

*

"How is it," Chris asks, still conspicuously out of breath, "that you are exactly what I want?"

"Is that a line?" Otabek asks from the pillow beside his.

"Do I look like that's a line?"

Otabek leans his chin on his hand and regards Chris seriously. "No," he finally decides. I think you look like you’re a very high end motor bike.”

“Excuse me?” He squints, like maybe what Otabek just said is an error of translation.

“A very high end motorbike,” Otabek repeats. “Dangerous if you don't know how to handle it, beautiful, worthy of respect, and a really good ride. And then we are here... after, doing this and I feel like... I feel like I am feeling so much."

Chris’s eyes go wide, and he stares at Otabek for so long he starts to worry he’s fucked up somehow. He hopes not. He has a lot of questions, most of them for himself but some rather pertinent ones for Chris, and as his brain starts to come back online they start spinning through his head.

Beside him, Chris tips his head into his and twines their fingers together.

"Question," Chris asked.

"Mm?”

"Yuri."

And that, right there, is Otabek’s biggest question. Both for himself and for Chris. "Mhm?"

"What's going on there?"

"Why do you want to know?" Otabek asks, hoping he doesn't sound defensive.

"Not to gossip."

"I know," Otabek says. "I trust you." _I wouldn't have gone to bed with you if I didn't._ Even if it was spontaneous, which is also something he’s going to struggle with tomorrow.

"So?" Chris leads.

Otabek sighs, and tries to find the right words. "Nothing. But... it's a complicated nothing.”

“You’re not dating?”

“Still no.”

“But you want to.” It’s not a question, and it’s a strange rehash of the conversation the last time they met.

“Nobody wants to be that guy waiting for someone else to be old enough..."

"No," Chris agrees. "Good."

"But that thing where we're all sort of the same age until we retire...."

"Yeah, that's real," Chris agrees. Then sighs.

"That wasn't why you asked."

"No."

"Why?"

"I... feel like I can't breathe when i'm around you, in the best possible way, but if I'm the holding pattern until that feral Russian kitten grows up, I'd like to know... sooner rather than later."

Otabek thinks about it, probably for too long, because he can feel Chris next to him, growing heavier somehow, from grief.

"You get left behind a lot, don't you?" he asks, thinking of Victor and Katsuki and the way Chris and Victor were the playboy terrors of the senior men when he was coming up.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

"You're not a holding pattern," Otabek says quickly. "But our whole lives are ...." he trails off and makes a vague gesture. Their lives now, as skaters, are not the lives they will have when they leave the sport. Those other lives and what they're supposed to look like seem impossible to imagine. And how any of them will get from here to there when the time comes, he doesn't know.


	6. Chapter 6

**November 2017**

Chris and Otabek do not ever get cleaned up or go back to the banquet. They spend the rest of the night talking and enjoying each other until Otabek, with obvious reluctance, pulls himself out of Chris’s embrace and says he has to get back to his room to pack and get to the airport.

They part with a last, lingering kiss at the door. “I’ll email you,” Otabek promises, with a squeeze to Chris’s hand. And Chris shouldn’t believe him because it will be _bad_ for his heart when that promise gets broken too, but he just can’t help himself. 

Otabek gone -- and who knows when Chris will get to see him again; the Olympics, assuming they both make their teams -- which is a safer assumption with each of them than it is for others, Otabek is _the_ Kazakh skater and the Swiss field is never huge -- is two months away -- Chris looks around the empty room and feels bereft. It’s four in the morning, he’s not slept and probably won’t, he’s having _feelings_ all over the place, and he’s just remembered that Victor, whose skulking around started this whole mess, is two doors down the hall from him. 

He needs to shower, pack, deal with Victor -- at some point -- and vent about this all to _someone_ . Which, as far as Chris is concerned is the biggest reason to be mad at Victor right now. Who’s Chris supposed to gossip to about Otabek? _JJ?_

Right now, his choices for emotional dumping are Otabek himself -- not available, at this moment -- and Luca and his coach -- not awake at this moment.

And by the time he and Josef are both together and reasonably conscious, they’re on a plane back to Geneva and Chris is _not_ going to tell him he fucked Otabek while they’re in a small enclosed area surrounded by other people. Josef is used to his shit, but he also judges his shit. Not the sleeping around itself, but the drama that sometimes follows. 

Josef is _supremely_ annoyed by Victor.

Chris spends the flight trying and failing to sleep. He wants to gossip or work off the energy of last night on a run or on the ice, and he can do none of that. In the absence of emotional outpouring or physical exertion, he’s trapped with his own brain, turning last night over and over again in his head. By the time they land, Chris is judging _himself_ for how infatuated he is with Otabek.

Thankfully, Luca is waiting at arrivals for him. Chris hugs Josef goodbye, promises to be on time for practice in the morning and then practically throws himself at his best friend. 

*

“Thank you for driving,” he says, when they’re in his car and heading into the mountains.

Luca shrugs and casts a quick glance to him. “Rough gig?”

“No, not so much. But holy shit do I have a story.”

“Go on…”

Chris shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be interrupted, and yes, he can imagine himself prattling on about Otabek and Victor and Yuri for longer than it takes to reach the chalet. Of course, it’s also that he wants to see Luca’s face. For someone he’s not sleeping with -- because Luca is straight and Chris’s life is a constant tragicomedy -- he’s pretty central to his relationship network. Also, he’ll call Chris on his shit. Which frankly, Chris knows he needs.

Chris loves travelling -- loves the thrill of getting on a plane and getting off of it on the other side of the planet, loves the excitement of new cities even if he barely sees them, But the best thing about travelling is, and always has been, coming home. 

It helps, surely, that _home_ is a fifteenth-century chalet that’s been in his family for generations, with stunning views out over the mountains. It’s a mess of a thing, really -- divided into three apartments that all interconnect as needed, the only way, really to deal with the sort of multigenerational family a place like this has always been meant for. His grandparents live in one of the downstairs apartments; they’re in good enough health, but who needs stairs, really? Chris lives in the top of the house, up the all too often snow-covered stairs. In places, the house soars above him, in others, like the small attic room Chris thinks of as his solarium -- filled with books and plants -- he has to duck, having long outgrown the the low wooden beams.

Chris really loves the house and the sort of life it represents. Loves seeing his grandparents’ car in its usual spot in the driveway, loves kicking off his shoes and leaving them beside all his other footwear, _loves_ dropping his bag and knowing he doesn’t have to unpack because all the rest of his stuff is waiting for him here. So much of how he chooses to live requires a city, but the stuff he didn’t choose? All of that belongs in this place.

When he and Luca have finally tromped up the stairs, it’s clear his grandfather must have come in earlier to air the place out, because there’s a fire laid in the fireplace. Luca, bless him, goes to light it while Chris goes to the kitchen to get them a snack. By the time he comes back with fruit and almonds -- thank you, meal plan -- Luca is dusting his hands off on his trousers. The fire crackles merrily back at both of them.

“All right.” Luca settles himself on the couch, one ankle crossed over his knee. “Spill.”

Chris sets down the plate on the coffee table, sits down next to him, opens his mouth...and realizes he doesn’t even know how to start.

“Do you remember Otabek Altin?” he asks.

Luca squints. “The name sounds familiar?”

“Khazkh skater, he --”

“Oh _right!_ The one with Plisetsky!”

Chris wonders if either of those two are ever going to be able to live that down. Also _not just with Plisetsky_ but he’ll get to that.

“Yes.” He grabs a throw pillow and hugs it to himself. “We’ve been talking.”

“Talking,” Luca says, with raised eyebrows. 

“Yes, _talking_.”

“Just talking?”

“You don’t have to sound so skeptical.”

“I’m not! I’m just. Well. Wasn’t expecting a _story_ out of ‘just talking.’”

Still clutching the pillow, Chris tells Luca about rescuing the Latvian kid at Rostelecom and the quiet conversation with Otabek that had followed and the somehow chemistry that had come out of all that. 

“And that was several weeks ago,” Luca points out.

“Yes. I didn’t see him -- I mean, when would I? -- or talk to him at all again until yesterday. Two days ago? I don’t even know. And then at the banquet after the thing Victor was being a dick and, okay, I wanted to make him mad, so I tried to get Otabek to help. With that.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, in that he grabbed me and pulled me out of the room. No, in that he yelled at me for using him to get back at Victor.”

“And you liked it?” Luca guesses. Not inaccurately.

“Well, I yelled back a bit. And then he kissed me to shut me up. And...” Chris trails off. 

“And?”

“And we stayed up all night talking and laughing and fucking until he had to catch his flight.”

“What’s the catch?”

“He’s nineteen and he’s also kinda sorta dating Plisetsky.”

“Chris --”

“Yes?”

“I say this with all the love in the world, but _what the fuck_?”

"I'm really into him."

"Well good, because little Yuri is going to gouge your eyes out. And people don't belong to other people but that boy is a loose cannon and you don't need the pain."

"But what if he doesn't?"

"Chris." Luca looks at him very seriously and, he thinks, a little sadly. "You cannot possibly be thinking what I think you're thinking."

"What do you think I'm thinking?" Chris's air of innocence is probably hampered by the way he's still clutching the pillow to his chest.

"You caught feelings, didn't you."

"Really, really bad."

*

Chris’s alarm goes off entirely too early. His room is still dark -- this time of year, the sun won’t even rise until he’s already at the rink -- and he fumbles his phone off the nightstand to silence it. He groggily thumbs through the notifications that have come in overnight -- comments on his instagram posts from the show, snark and memes in various group chats, a snap of something hilarious from Phichit -- while he swims back to full consciousness. His email is usually less interesting than the rest, so he checks it last and immediately regrets that choice when he sees the new message from Otabek.

_He really did email_ , is Chris’s stunned thought.

> _Chris -_
> 
> _I hope you got back home safely. I’m sorry I didn’t send this before now._
> 
> _Thank you. I hope the rest of your season goes well. In the meantime, let’s focus on what we need to focus on so we can both be at the Olympics._
> 
> _\- Beka_

It’s short and almost bloodless, except Chris can _hear_ Otabek’s voice, his careful word choice and enunciation as he works through thoughts in a language that’s far from his first.

*

Chris doesn’t even work out what’s significant in the email until Josef is hollering a passive-aggressive _thank you_ at him for finally executing his rocker sequence like he’s been telling Chris to for months.

It’s the _thank you._ Because it’s not about Chris understanding that Otabek wants to focus on his training right now. It’s not a tick borne of speaking too many languages and looking for a polite email sign-off. It’s about Warsaw. And that it was lovely.

Chris actually falls out of a spin at the realization and he’s so startled that he gives in and lets it take him all the way down to the ice.

Josef is hollering at him, but all Chris can do is sit there on his ass for a moment, his arms resting on his knees as he laughs. Because Otabek is trying to make good choices, but Chris would bet money he’s feeling feelings exactly as much as Chris is. And, well, isn’t that convenient?

He pulls himself together for the rest of practice. There’s only so far he wants to test Josef’s patience, and the Olympics are less than three months away. The work needs to get done and Chris, unlike many a younger and less experienced skater, has self control where it counts.

*

What with travel time and incipient jetlag, Otabek doesn’t manage to email Chris until the morning after he gets home. He’d composed the email on the flight from Warsaw, but hadn’t trusted himself enough to send it until he could re-read it the next morning, after an acceptable amount of sleep in his own bed.

He spends the day focused on work. He’s not on the ice today -- he tries to stay off of it the day after travel -- and instead cycles between sessions with his trainer at the gym and meetings with Jiyoung and Sung-min about his schedule for the next few weeks. There are more media appearances coming up than he really wants to deal with, but Jiyoung insists.

“If you are going to be Kazakhstan’s hero, you are going to let Kazakhstan see you,” she says firmly.

*

When he gets out of his last round at the gym to meet Inkar for yoga, she’s waiting for him in the lobby, scrolling through her phone. 

She looks up at him when he drops his bag down next to her.

“You look like crap.”

“Thank you.” He pulls his arm across his chest; he’d gotten a kink in his shoulder on the plane he still hasn’t been able to completely work out.

“Rough trip?”

“Planes are the worst.”

“I see you and Christophe got a chance to _bond_.”

“Wait, what?”

Inkar waggles the phone at him. It’s open to Instagram. Otabek squints at and then wishes he hadn’t. Phichit. He had, somehow, managed to get a photo of Otabek and Chris with their heads together in the corner of the room at the banquet.

“We were _talking_ ,” Otabek protests.

“And you’re blushing.” Inkar sounds fascinated. “When have I ever seen you blush before?”

“When Mom asked me if I wanted to invite Yuri Plisetsky to come visit for Eid.”

“She did what? Oh my god. Your mom is the best. Also I have even more questions now.”

“You’re not the only one.” Otabek sighs and picks up his bag again. “We’re going to be late for class.”

*

Yoga is peaceful and grounding, and Otabek is grateful for both of those things when he finally gets back home. The apartment he shares with his cousins is warm and loud and always chaotic in the best way, and Otabek loves it, but especially after being on the road for a few days the transition back into the thick of things is a lot.

What with cooking and eating and cleaning up, sorting through the laundry for his own socks and folding everyone else’s while he’s at it because it’s easier that way, and a very necessary shower, Otabek finally shuts himself in his own room. He pokes his computer awake to check his email while he gets dressed for bed, and isn’t surprised, but is a little disappointed not to see a reply from Chris. But, he supposes, it’s still the middle of the day in Switzerland.

He crawls into bed and scrolls through his camera roll until he finds a decent picture of the airport from yesterday. _Good to be home_ , he captions it, and tags ALA in it. Before he has a chance to put the phone down, it pings a new notification at him: _@yuri-plisetsky has liked your photo._

Immediately after that he gets a message. 

> **yuri-plisetsky :** You should post more.  
>  **otabek-altin :** So people tell me.  
>  **otabek-altin :** crashing now, skate well tomorrow.  
>  **yuri-plisetsky :** I always do.  
>  **yuri-plisetsky :** you too.

*

Back home that night, Chris puts dinner together and then sits at the breakfast bar to eat with his laptop open in front of him.

> _Beka --_
> 
> _Message received and gratitude unnecessary. It was an honor._
> 
> _Let's find time after we win everything in PyeongChang. I'll be watching you at the GPF and 4CC._
> 
> _Take care,  
> _ _Chris_

Chris heaves a sigh before he hits send. There’s so much he wants to convey. He wants to call Otabek and say it all to his face and _see_ his face, except for the thing where Otabek had asked for space and Chris likes giving people what they want. 

That email sent, Chris opens another compose window and shoots off a note to Phichit. 

> _Hi! Good seeing you in Warsaw. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk more._
> 
> _I have a favor to ask, and I’m going to preface this with: Please be subtle and please keep this in confidence, and, yes, that means Yuuri too._
> 
> _Can you get in touch with Otabek and get him some resources about polyamory? THIS DIDN’T COME FROM ME. We’ve talked a little, he has more than one relationship going on, and I think he could use some sort of framework as he goes forward and makes decisions. You know, before something blows up in his face._
> 
> _Thank you, you’re the best!_

Chris hits send on that, too, and then goes to take a shower. Bangkok’s six hours ahead of Geneva, Phichit’s as deep in training as the rest of them, and it will surely take him at least a day to get whatever links and book recommendations together. And links and recommendations, he surely has. He and Chris have traded notes on multiple occasions. In Barcelona he’d been delighted to discover that Phichit manages the North American Skating Polyamory Clusterfuck (mostly Leo and Guang Hong’s friendship with benefits and indeterminate degree of feelings) much the same way Chris does for the European-Asian Skating Polyamory Clusterfuck (which until recent developments was mostly his and Victor’s joint exploits.)

Phichit’s schedule is stranger than Chris’s, or he’s jetlagged, or maybe his sense for drama is just that strong, because when he gets out of the shower there’s a new email from him.

_Well, we wouldn’t want anything to blow up in his face. It’s a very nice face. French or English? I don’t have much in Russian, sorry :/_

_English?_ Chris guesses. It’s what they’ve always defaulted to. 

His email pings again almost immediately _You got it!_

Chris realizes, as he finishes his evening stretches and climbs into bed with a book he’ll read three pages of before he falls asleep, that he maybe should have told Phichit to wait a day. Or a week. Give Otabek some time to sort his own thoughts out before barraging him with new information. Oops.

*

Otabek wakes up to two emails: One from Chris that deserves some kind of eloquent response, and another from Phichit, which raises the question of how Phichit has Otabek’s email address, among other things.

_Hi! Chris asked me to be subtle, but nothing subtle is happening here. And while you seem like you're doing A+ with whatever you are doing with Chris and Yuri P and whoever else you are doing it with, handy reading attached. Don't yell at Chris; he just wants you to have resources to make whatever are the best choices for you. You can yell at me, however, because I'm emotionally uninvolved and nosy! Anyway see you at 4CCs!_

There are PDFs attached. Otabek opens one with trepidation -- it is _way_ too early for this -- and closes it again almost immediately.

He’s not going to yell, at Chris or Phichit or anyone else. He is, possibly, going to crawl into a hole until he can forget the now undeniable fact that the whole skating community knows, or is soon about to know, that he has relationships with both Chris and Yuri.

_Does_ he even have relationships with either of them?

_All I did was talk to them_ , he thinks with dismay.


	7. Chapter 7

**Grand Prix Final  
** **Seoul  
** **December 2017**

> **_yuri-plisetsky:_ ** _Help me with my exhibition skate  
> _ **_otabek-altin:_ ** _Again?  
> _ **_yuri-plisetsky:_ ** _Duh  
> _ **_otabek-altin:_ ** _You couldn't have asked sooner?  
> _ **_yuri-plisetsky:_ ** _I did ask sooner. Than last year at least._

Otabek supposes Yuri is correct. Technically. But still.

> **_otabek-altin:_ ** _I'm at the airport. Waiting to board.  
> _ **_yuri-plisetsky_ ** _: Well hurry up and get here_

Yuri is waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel, ten hours and several thousand miles later. 

"I have some music you might like," Otabek says by way of greeting.

Yuri's face lights up. "Awesome. Can I hear?"

"Yeah, come on up."

Yuri follows Otabek to his room, waits while he does battle with the keycard reader, then flops down on the bed while Otabek unpacks. It should feel more strange than it does; they haven't seen each other in person since September, Yuri's texts are constant though less belligerent than they have been, and six weeks ago Otabek hooked up with Chris. 

Although "hooked up" feels like an understatement for what had passed between them. And then there was that email from Phichit with the reading material he still hasn’t looked at, though he has exchanged a few messages with Phichit himself about the whole thing. And now Yuri is lying across his hotel bed, his phone in hand but his eyes darting glances at Otabek as he moves around the room. Otabek knows because he keeps darting glances at Yuri, too.

Should he feel guilty? Otabek's not sure. What he does know is that he can’t stop thinking about Chris _or_ Yuri. And so for now he'll do what he's always done. Keep his head down and his mind on what's in front of him. Which is, at the moment, Yuri.

He pulls his laptop out of his bag and sits down on the bed next to him. Yuri rolls over on to his back and regards Otabek.

"Did you sleep with Chris?" he asks as Otabek opens the laptop.

Otabek hesitates. He won't lie, but he also doesn't want to get screamed at by Yuri when he's still muzzy from travel. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Victor's been whining. You two slipped off from the banquet in Warsaw."

Otabek waits for the screaming to start, but it doesn't. Yuri flips over on to his stomach and pulls Otabek's laptop towards him. "You said you had songs."

Otabek is entirely sure this isn't the end of that conversation. But he'll take the grace, for now.

**Moscow**

Phichit missed making the Final by a margin and then convinced Celestino to let him "train" in Pita for a week with Victor and Yuuri. Victor and Yuuri both qualified for the Final, but in an Olympic year the work and strain of the extra competition aren’t worth it. Especially not when neither of them are young, for skaters, and the stakes this season are so very high.

The thing is, Yuuri thinks, when Phichit bangs through the rink door, still hauling all his luggage and calling out greetings in multiple languages, he probably will actually get a ton of work done in between being an absolute terror. Mila loves him. Victor thinks he's adorable. Yakov thinks his lack of training in figures is deplorable but also thinks his charismatic style is a good influence on what can be a hidebound Russian program. 

Phichit launches himself at Yuuri, who's barely gotten his skate guards on and wobbles precariously. "Yuuri! Oh my God! I have so much to tell you!!!"

Yuuri adores Phichit, he really does. They've been close friends for a long time, and Phichit's perennial good cheer and complete inability to take anything personally make Yuuri's life a lot easier.

What makes Yuuri's life less easy is being unable to differentiate between when Phichit has exciting news about his own life or comes bearing gossip that he maybe shouldn't be shouting about in public in front of people who are somewhat directly concerned.

"How are you?" Yuuri asks into the hug.

"I am fine. But, oh my God, I _have_ to tell you about this email I got from Chris."

"Okay. That's great. Can you wait -- ten minutes?" Yuuri throws a glance at Victor, who's nearby but hasn't yet gotten caught up in the Phichit whirlwind. He doesn't know what's going on with Victor and Chris; he tries to tune out Victor's grumblings about who Chris has or hasn't sneaked off with. It's Chris, isn't sneaking off with people what he does?

Phichit makes a disappointed noise similar to a teapot coming to a boil, but rocks back on his heels. "Oh fine."

"Victor," Yuuri calls. "Phichit and I are taking a break. I know you wanted to work some more on your choreo, catch up with us later?"

*

“All right, what’s going on?” Yuuri asks as Phichit slides in across from him at their table in the coffee shop down the street from the rink. 

Phichit takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Oh my God. _So much._ ”

Yuuri sits back, sips his tea, and lets Phichit talk.

“Okay so first, when I was in Warsaw, I saw Chris and Otabek sort of like, hanging out, you know?”

“Okay?” Yuuri cannot comprehend why this is a piece of news. Other than that maybe it’s remarkable Otabek talked to anyone who wasn’t Yuri.

“Which, yeah, I know might be whatever, but then they left the room together at the banquet I thought maybe just to annoy Victor who was sort of hanging around looking put out by the whole thing, but then they didn’t come back _all night_.”

“Oh my God. Chris and Otabek? They hooked up?” Yuuri is surprised by that on a few levels. And more than a little concerned. Mostly about Yuri.

“Mmm _hmmmm_.”

“Oh my _God_.” One of them is going to have to stop saying that eventually. But they’re speaking in English and it’s the only turn of phrase for everything Yuuri’s feeling right now. “Yuri’s going to murder someone.” 

“Oh no no no! That’s the best part! I think, anyway.”

“You think?”

“So, I got this email from Chris like, weeks ago. He wanted me -- as, you know, a neutral non-invested third party -- to get Otabek some resources about polyamory. So I suspect the thing with Chris wasn’t _just_ a hookup. And we all know that Otabek and Yuri are….” Phichit waves a hand to encompass whatever the hell those two, in fact, are. “I sent him a bunch of stuff to read and then we’ve been kind of emailing about it back and forth.”

“Which means Yuri isn’t going to murder someone....why?”

“Because Otabek knows how to conduct multiple relationships ethically,” Phichit says with as much ease and confidence as if he were stating that ice is cold.

“Because he read some articles about polyamory?” Yuuri presses. 

“Yes, but also, you know Otabek. He’s just so...decent. He won’t fuck this up.”

“Phichit,” Yuuri says despairingly. “He’s nineteen.”

“So?”

“So were either of us capable of good relationship choices when we were nineteen?”

“No,” Phichit admits. “But Otabek is much more sensible. And Chris is lovely.”

“While both of those things are true, Yuri’s a bomb waiting to go off. Just because Otabek is handling this correctly doesn’t mean it’s what Yuri wants or can handle.”

“You need to have more faith in people,” Phichit says, all equanimity, and takes a sip of his coffee.

Yuuri stares at him in despair. And then registers something Phichit said much earlier in the conversation. “Wait. You said Victor was doing something? At the banquet? In Warsaw?”

“Oh, yeah, totally. Like I said. Chris and Otabek were talking and Victor was _not_ pleased about that.”

“Why?”

Phichit shrugs. “Who knows. I mean, you’d know what their deal is better than I would.”

“I don’t, really. Victor doesn’t ever talk about him. I mean. Until recently -- he’s been complaining about the banquet thing but I thought that was just because he was worried about Yuri. Honestly, I’ve been trying to ignore it.”

“Ahhhhh.” Phichit looks cagey.

“Phichit,” Yuuri says.

“Mmm?”

“What do you know?”

Phichit shifts in his seat. “Just -- something Chris said to me.”

“What did he say?” Yuuri presses.

“Look, everybody has their friend that they complain about their other friends to.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says. Phichit is that friend for most of the international senior level men’s field -- and at least half of the women’s. He can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life, but he doesn’t have a malicious or judgmental bone in his body, and in a world where everyone knows everyone else’s secrets anyway, that counts for a lot.

“And I definitely wasn’t supposed to repeat it,” Phichit says. “So you didn’t hear it from me. But apparently Victor’s been acting like nothing is wrong at all between him and Chris for like...ages, even before the thing with Otabek.”

This is news to Yuuri. “What’s been wrong between them?”

“I mean, I don’t know what started it all, but...you know how Victor’s really bad at communicating?”

Yuuri hasn’t suffered greatly from it -- yet -- but he knows his reputation. “Yeah?”

“Well...” Phichit begins. 

Yuuri braces himself. 

**Seoul**

After official practice -- Yuri doesn’t want to go but skipping is absolutely not an option as far as his coaches are concerned -- he and Otabek, by mutual, silent consent, sit side-by-side in the locker room. Otabek being there is the one thing that had made the practice bearable. He’s the only person who, when Yuri had fallen on a triple toe, of all things, hadn’t looked at him with either pity or relief.

Yuri peels off his boot and immediately hisses in pain. Otabek looks up from wiping down his blades.

"Jesus, Yura. What happened to your feet?" The words seem startled out of Otabek, and Yuri shoves his feet out of sight. As well as he can when they're sitting side by side on the bench and he has no place to put them. He pulls one of his sneakers on and then can't help the wince as it scrapes over the raw patches.

"You don't have to look like that," he snaps, because they hurt like the devil and look worse and he knows that and really doesn't need anyone pointing it out. Especially Otabek. The practice session hadn’t gone badly, exactly, but it had gone the way Yura’s skating has gone for this entire season: Neither precise not consistent. It’s not good enough, everyone knows it, and he is exhausted and

Otabek hums. He does at least look back at Yuri's face, though his gaze drops again when Yuri puts on his other shoe, or tries to.

"Stop _staring_."

"I'm sorry. Can I --" Otabek waves a hand, which isn't really a request, and Yuri's first impulse is to snarl at him and run away but to his own horror he suddenly wants to cry. Just one more way his body is betraying him this year.

"Sure, yeah, whatever."

Otabek slides off the bench and to his knees in front of Yuri. With gentle fingers he lifts Yuri's right foot, the one he couldn't even get his shoe on to.

"You should wrap this."

"I know. I was going to, but then you had to make comments."

"Were you?" Otabek looks skeptical, but doesn't give Yuri a chance to answer. "I've got some stuff in my bag, it might help. If you want?"

"You don't want to touch my feet. They look like a dog's been chewing on them!"

"They do," Otabek agrees. 

Yuri kicks at him and then winces. Again.

Otabek gives Yuri a stern look from under his fringe. "I'm trying to help you, here." 

"I didn't ask for you to!"

"Do you want me to stop?"

Yuri doesn't. He really doesn't. He hates everything that's happening right now, but he hates the thought of Otabek getting up and leaving him here even worse. He shrugs.

"Yura. Words."

"Don't stop," Yuri grits out.

"Okay. Stay there," Otabek says in that same stern tone, and it shouldn't do things to Yuri but it does.

He rummages through his bag, washes his hands, and comes back with some kind of antibiotic ointment, lotion, and a roll of athletic tape. Yuri bites down on his lip as Otabek takes his foot in his lap again and starts, very gently, working in the ointment.

"My skates are new," he says, in an attempt to shut up the _oh my god_ litany that's now running through his brain.

"I thought they looked it," Otabek observes. "Bad time in the season to be breaking boots in."

"They're my second pair this year. I keep outgrowing them."

"Shit."

"Yeah," Yuri agrees emphatically. And...this is good. This is fine. He can make himself sit still and let his best friend take care of his stupid feet because he's an athlete and their lives have no boundaries that make sense to other people.

Except...except. Otabek gets his feet ointment-ed and then taped to Yuri's specifications. He stands up and goes to wash his hands, and Yuri leans down to pick up his socks, but Otabek says "not yet" without even looking at him and Yuri freezes again.

Hands clean again, and dry, he kneels down again and starts _massaging Yuri's feet._

Yuri yelps.

Otabek glances up at him and the sight of him like this, on his knees, makes something in Yuri's gut twist. "Does that hurt?"

 _No. No, it doesn't_ , and that is exactly Yuri's problem. He shakes his head. 

"Good," Otabek says and keeps going.

*

After practice, Yuri’s feet taken care of, for now, they leave the rink together. Otabek can’t keep glancing sideways at him as they walk. They’ve known each other for a year, now. Yuri at sixteen is taller, if possible more willowy, and his hair now hangs below his shoulders. He’s not less feral, and as it’s turning out, Otabek and he are just as inseparable this GPF as they were last year.

Otabek draws the line at sleeping in each others' rooms, though. For one, he does not want to draw down the wrath of Yuri's coaches on either of them. For another, he knows the best way to beat temptation is to avoid it.

But he can't entirely. There are too many moments -- walking beside Yura down a street in Seoul when their hands slip together as if that's something they've always done, sitting in a cafe with tea going cold on the table between them while they talk and their knees press together, so many quiet corners at the rink where they sit without talking, each of them with headphones on, keeping warm -- when Otabek _wants_ with a ferocity that surprises him.

The thing with Chris had surprised him too, but that had been lucky chance and circumstance and something, he hopes deeper, spinning out in the wake of it. Yuri has always fascinated him from a distance, and knowing he had a crush on him was the least surprising thing Otabek had ever realized about himself. But after a year and near-daily contact, this isn't just a crush, and not touching Yuri isn't making his own feelings less of a distraction. Otabek increasingly has to ball his hands into fists to keep himself for reaching for what he knows he shouldn't ask for.

His life as a skater has always felt so impossibly isolated. But when they run through their stretches in his room in the morning before they head out for the day, Yuri glances over at him and _tchs_ before coming to kneel behind him, one hand on his shoulder and one at the middle of his back, pushing him deeper into the stretch. And Otabek wonders if maybe, just maybe, there might be another way.

Because every second he and Yuri are together, Otabek thinks about what this would be if he could be easy about it. He loves Yuri's ferociousness. He wants to mark him up and get marked up and just get out all the ways his life makes him wound up. But he can't. Because he's nineteen and Yura is sixteen, and that's not _bad_ but it's a car crash waiting to happen. Yuri is still wild and unpredictable and angry at so much of the world in ways that are only just this side of destructive.

 _But. But. But,_ the voice in Otabek’s head that's getting harder and harder to ignore keeps saying. But, he'd thought Chris was a crazy car crash too, and he'd been wrong. What's happening with Chris is beautiful. 

Otabek is sure that Yuri would be beautiful too.

*

He’s drawn the third slot for the short program. Yuri is going fifth. Yuri walks with him to the ice, then ducks away while Jiyoung speaks quietly to Otabek. 

When Otabek finally skates to the middle of the ice to begin, he does so to the shush of his own blades and Yura's "Davai!!!" echoing across the rink.

**The middle of nowhere outside Le Châble, Switzerland**

Avoiding a competition, even strategically, can sometimes be emotionally hard. There is always a fear of missing out, of being forgotten, of being left behind by an ever-improving field. But sometimes, especially in the intensity leading up to an Olympics, it’s a goddamn relief, and Chris is grateful to be taking a day off from everything but a couple of hours of obligatory off-ice training, to watch the competition skate. Home is always comfortable; comfort is never common, but always welcome.

Even though he's not saying anything, Chris waves a hand at Luca to shush when Otabek starts skating. Chris has never actually seen the program in person -- it does him no good not to keep his eyes on his own paper at competitions. So watching it on a screen is what he's used to.

It is, in general, a terrible way to watch skating. Too small, yes and also camera people who don't understand that the feet are important. But here, suddenly, when Chris isn't just trying to assess the competition, it's a blessing. Because he can see if Otabek is nervous.

A little bit, but that's part of the game. What's more startling after he starts and nails the combo is that he's smiling. Chris is absolutely sure he's never seen Otabek smile during a skate before.

"This looks really different than last time I saw this program," Luca says.

Chris waves at him to be quiet again.

"Wow, you do have it bad."

"He was worried relationships would mess up his season," Chris says. "Now I have to compete against artistry too." He should be horrified. But he's fucking delighted. Because it's not just _a_ smile on Otabek's face, but one private and familiar. From Warsaw. And being in bed with him.

Chris laughs suddenly, because he doesn't know what else to do.

"I'm asking Mishi to marry me this weekend," Luca says.

Chris hears the sounds more than the words and shushes him. He's leaned forward now, elbows on knees trying to glean anything he can from the kiss and cry before the scores come in. Mostly, Otabek is back to his stoic self, but the hard breathing and the slight smile sure make Chris feel a certain sort of way.

And then the sounds Luca has just made assemble themselves into an actual meaning. Chris looks at him sharply. "Wait, what?"

"I'm proposing to Michelle this weekend. I bought the ring and everything," Luca says.

Chris looks at him -- flat, he hopes, and not stricken. "Congratulations," he says and drops onto the couch. "I need a moment. I'm sorry. I'm going to be so happy for you in a minute but --"

"I know," Luca says quietly.

But he doesn’t, not really, because because Luca isn't the one getting left behind. Chris is long past being in love with Luca, and my God, they've known each other since they were three years old... but that's the thing, they've always been there for each other, the first amongst so many. Which isn't really a thing that works in the face of a marriage.

Chris presses his fingers to eyes and takes a deep breath. Nothing is really going to change; they’ll still be best friends. Luca will still be the same guy who was absurdly lovely in the face of Chris’s wildly unrequited feelings for him more than a decade ago, the guy Chris can trust with everything.Chris is just going to have to acknowledge all the things that have been changing all around him this entire time. It's a good thing he likes Mishi desperately and that Luca isn't an asshole.

Once, when he and Victor were first doing what they were doing and Victor wasn't completely a legend yet, Chris had said something to him about this feeling of always being the one left behind. And Victor had laughed and said, "No, you're going to leave all of them behind, because I'm taking you with me."

Which, of course, isn't what happened, and Chris has a whole lot of silver medals and whatever Victor is to him now to prove it.

When he opens his eyes, Luca is looking at him with nearly comical sympathy. Chris reaches out and pats his knee. It's fine, they'll be fine.

On the TV, Otabek has just received his scores, moving him into first.

**St. Petersburg**

"Victor?"

"Mmmmm?"

"I have a question."

"Is it a sexy question?" Victor is joking. They are both conspicuously exhausted -- after a full day of training they stayed up to watch the men’s short program in Seoul -- and they are long past the stage of their relationship where Victor tried to impress him with constant innuendo.

Yuuri has to think about the answer. Because in a way it is. Although not for him. Or Victor. "No," he says, not wanting to make a joke of it. "I don't think so."

"What is it then?" That's Victor's concerned voice, and Yuuri feels guilty, as he is not the one whose Victor's concern should be directed at.

"What's going on with you and Chris?"

"What do you mean what's going on with me and Chris?"

"I mean... why aren't you talking to him? And why are you always complaining to me about it?"

"That's what friends do, complain about each other to other people." The answer is too breezy, and Yuuri knows it.

"Why wasn't he at our wedding?"

"Because he wasn't at our wedding?"

"Did you invite him?"

And there it is, Victor stammers, and Yuuri has caught him at something, although he doesn't yet know what.

"Why didn't you invite him?"

"It seemed weird."

"Why did it seem weird, Victor? You two were so close for so long...."

"But we were..."

Yuuri understands the ways that sentence can end, but doesn't understand why this is what he's being told as an explanation. "You know Phichit and I used to fuck like all the time when we were in college right?"

"Um... not when you put it like that. I mean, sure... but all the time?"

Yuuri laughs at that with a certain degree of hysteria. Victor is ridiculous. And it's strange what they think they know about each other and don't. It feels... not good. "Yes, and he's still my friend and was my best man. What happened between you and Chris?"

For a long time, Victor says nothing, and Yuuri listens to him listening to his own breathing. "Sometimes friendships just... drift."

"There are less than a hundred people in the world who have any ability to relate to what our lives are. Friends like that don't just drift. And if they do... you wouldn't complain to me about him all the time."

"Yura finally has something nice for himself with Beka... maybe, I hope. Chris --"

Yuuri holds up a hand in the dark. "Wait. Are you trying to tell me you're mad at Chris because he's getting in between whatever Yura and Beka are doing, because I don't think that's what's happening." He also doesn't think that's true in terms of Victor's motivations, but one thing at a time.

"Yes?"

"Okay, because Phichit told me that Chris emailed him asking him to email Beka about how to ethically have multiple relationships --"

"Polyamory," Victor supplies.

"-- right.... So Phichit emailed Beka and Beka was apparently taken aback but grateful. And I don't feel like any of this points to anyone behaving badly...." Yuuri trails off, and makes a show of thinking the matter through. "unless you're mad that Chris hooked up with Beka at that charity thing because you thought Chris should have been... something... with you?"

"I'm not trying to have an affair with Chris."

Yuuri has no idea what to do with that, although it's certainly pointing him in some sort of direction. "I didn't say you were. But I’m kind of getting the impression you would have liked him to try."

Victor mumbles something Yuuri can't hear.

"Which," Yuuri continues, "seems like it would be really out of character for Chris. I can't imagine him flirting with someone who wasn't even talking to him him anymore."

"I talk to him," Victor says. It's too defensive, and they both know it.

"Do you talk to him, or do you do your breezy everything-is-fine chatter at him while ignoring anything that's actually the matter?"

"Ouch."

"Victor. I know how you are." Yuuri says it fondly, because he is fond of his ridiculous disaster human of a husband, but sometimes he also really wants to strangle him. He will not, because he is kind, tell him that what he just said is a direct quote -- via Phichit at least -- of Chris's. "Does he know why he wasn't invited to the wedding?"

Victor says nothing. Yuuri realizes...a lot of things, all at once. None of them paint Victor in a particularly flattering light. 

"You didn't _talk about?"_

"No?"

"Why!"

"We weren't talking."

"Victor! How long have you not been talking?"

"Since...you?"

"Since I _what,_ Victor." Yuuri is rapidly losing patience and also sympathy here. None of this is Yuuri's fault. Though it looks like he may have to be involved in the cleanup.

"Since I fucked off to Japan and didn't talk to anyone else in my life for a year."

Yuuri groans softly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Grand Prix Final 2017  
** **Seoul**

Winning always feels good, has since Yuri was small and couldn't even read all the words on the certificates and trophies and testing forms. Winning means you're better than other people. Winning means food you're not supposed to eat and apartments your family can't otherwise afford. And most importantly, winning means you get to keep doing what you're doing. Even here, on top of the world with bloody feet, an imperfect performance, and a looming Olympics, all Yuri can think about is that he has lived, again, to fight another day.

Beside him, Otabek with his silver, is no doubt thinking much the same. Unlike Yuri, he doesn't have to worry about who may be coming up behind him or a federation capable of so many betrayals. But his country's program will only exist so long as people -- and the government -- are interested in it. And that will only be true so long as he is winning medals. The possibility of other serious contenders from Kazakhstan is years away. If Otabek isn't thinking about that every day, he should be.

And JJ, because he is JJ, is as insufferable with bronze as he is with gold, and  _ how _ is that possible?

Yuri does his best not to look at Otabek as they do everything they have to after they win. Drug test, medal ceremony, press conference. It's all just more of the homework of their lives. Submit to other people's authority; say boring, infinitely palatable things about the sport; make people emotionally invested enough that they keep watching. And in exchange, they get to keep skating. Except JJ. Any useless fucking thing could come out of his mouth and he'd get to keep skating because he's from fucking Canada.

Finally, finally, they get through all their obligations -- and are sort of milling around in the mixed zone waiting for someone to tell them they are officially done -- when Otabek touches the back of Yuri's hand. Like that creeper prince with the sleeping apple girl, it feels like a spell that wakes him from all this tedious duty.

"What?" he says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He's maybe snarled it and hopes he doesn't sound as angry as all that.

"Congratulations," Otabek says.

Yuri nods. "You too." It's a big day for Otabek. That silver means more for him than the gold means for Yuri. He had just done what was expected of him, bloody feet and new boots, aside. There are no excuses in his life. There can't be. There's always a whole nation on his heels. Then, "What are we doing now?" Maybe it's too forward, but he doesn't know what to ask or suggest but he's going to be really mad if Otabek doesn't ask or suggest instead.

"I don't --"

Yuri realizes he can't have this conversation in front of a bunch of people with notebooks and miniature recorders, no matter how quietly. He shakes his head. "Come to my room." 

He means so they can figure it out, but realizes it maybe sounds like a proposition. Which would be okay, if he felt that bold. He doesn't. He should. A gold medal... he should be able to get whatever he wants. Not just deserts and big apartments and more skating.

And Otabek, he's either being stoic, or he understands.

***

"Hi."

"Hi." Yuri hovers in the door. He wants to invite Otabek in, but doesn’t know if Otabek would say yes. Getting no from him is not an experience Yura cares to repeat.

"I don't have a bike here."

"You're still dressed like you do."

Otabek shrugs. "Habit. Saving the suit for the banquet."

Yuri snorts at that. They both spend their lives in so many costumes. And not just on the ice. And hopefully not with each other.

"Do you want to come in?" he asks. It's awkward, but having a conversation half in a hallway where any one of his random Angels could suddenly appear from around a corner is probably more awkward.

"I shouldn't."

"Why? We're always in each other's rooms."

"Yura..."

Yuri thinks Otabek means to sound mildly scolding or roll his eyes, but instead he says his name like breath and need.

Yuri has been braver than everyone else he has ever known since he was three years old. That's how he's gotten here. Not just the medals. This doorway. This hallway. So he holds out his hand.

"It'll be okay," he says.

Otabek takes it and steps through the door, which closes behind him. 

Yuri tips his head down to kiss him. Six months ago, the angle would have been different.

The second Otabek's lips meet his, Yuri steps back so that he hits a wall. He needs it to hold him up. He needs Otabek to press him into it. 

Otabek seems, thankfully, to get the message. Because he lets go of Yuri's hand and grabs his face.

Yuri gasps, their tongues touch, and then there is drowning.

Yuri doesn't have words for how any of this feels right now. His body hardly knows how to process it. He's used to cataloging pain -- most recently, his feet, but always and for as long as he can remember, the ache of overworked muscles and the sting of flesh bruised and sometimes bloody from falls. He has absolutely no frame of reference for the way Otabek's hand feels digging into his hip, or the way his fingertips brush his jawline as he takes control of the angle of their mouths. He just knows he never wants it to stop.

He also doesn't know what he's doing. He's never had a kiss that he actually wanted, nothing that he hasn’t ended with judicious application of his elbows. But his body has taken over for him -- no need for so many hours of relentless practice -- and, with Otabek's careful hands to guide him, he thinks he's doing all right. 

Otabek pulls back, just enough to breathe raggedly against Yuri's hair. "You're shaking."

"Fuck you." Is he? He doesn't know. Nor does he particularly care.

"Are you all right?"

Yuri snarls "I will tell you if I'm not," and reels Otabek back in. 

Otabek's arm sneaks behind his back and pulls him away from the wall. Without that surface to support him, Yuri almost stumbles, but Otabek catches his weight without seeming effort and drops into the chair, pulling Yuri down with him. Yuri straddles Otabek's lap, his knees crammed awkwardly on either side of Otabek's thighs, and collapses against him. For once, he can give up fighting gravity. He lets Otabek's body catch him entirely. 

Otabek keeps kissing him, not just his mouth but his jaw, his throat, the line of his collarbone underneath the thin t-shirt he'd worn for the press conference. He's overwhelmed, but struggles to keep his eyes open. He can't bear to miss a moment of this. 

He is loud, which doesn't seem to be a problem for Otabek, and eager, which does.

The second Yuri tries to get his own shirt off, Otabek stops him. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"Are you kidding me?"

Otabek grips Yuri's hands tighter. "No. It's the middle of the season and we need to talk."

"We talk all the time."

"Yuri," Otabek says, sitting up and starting to lean forward in the chair. "Do not make me put you on the floor to have this conversation."

Yuri cackles.

"It will not be flirtatious. And it will not be cute. And we will both be upset."

Yuri finally relaxes in Otabek's grip and lets go of the hem of his shirt.

"Thank you," Otabek says and slumps back in the chair again taking Yuri -- who lets out a small disgruntled whimper -- with him.

"What do you want to talk about?" Yuri asks, when it appears Otabek isn’t going to say anything else unprompted. Asshole.

"We're about to go to the Olympics and this is a distraction we don't need."

"Speak for yourself. I'm fine."

Otabek regards him carefully. "Have you ever even been kissed by anyone before?"

"I assume you mean other than getting cornered by one of the Angels." Yuri rolls the hem of Otabek’s sleeve between his fingers. That, apparently, is okay.

"Yes.” Otabek frowns. “Also that's terrible."

Yuri shrugs and doesn't answer the question.

"We can't do this and put it back in the box,” Otabek says.

"It's already not in the box. Also you slept with Chris, so fuck you."

Otabek sighs. "Is this about that I slept with Chris or that I slept with Chris and I'm not fucking you into the mattress right now."

Yuri huffs.

"More words, please?

"I don't care that you slept with Chris. I do care that you think I do and now won't give me what I want because of it."

"Okay, that's not what's happening."

"Then what's happening?" Yuri demands.

"I slept with Chris, because we're both people with experience putting it back in the box. We weren't already deeply tangled up in each other's lives. It just happened. It was very nice, and then I asked him to give me space. A lot of it. Until after the Olympics."

Yura makes a considering noise. It’s nice that Otabek is being so matter of fact. It’s a lot less nice that he can’t seem to get what he wants. "Why can't we do that?"

"Because you'd have to stop emailing me every day about who you're mad at and what music you should use for exhibitions, and how much everyone you know is stupid and mean. And then when we do this thing, that you've never done before, and have feelings about it, you won't have time to deal with them and neither will I. Chris and I sleeping together was stupid. You and me sleeping together right now would be catastrophic."

"I still want to," Yuri says with a sulk.

"Yeah, so do I. But not happening."

They're silent for a long time, Otabek absently petting Yuri's hair. It feels nice, even if it's not what he wants, that they've at least finally acknowledged the super obvious thing between them.

"What are you doing with Chris?" Yuri finally asks.

Otabek shrugs. "I don't know. We have a date planned. At the Olympics. After we're done competing."

"You better not let him monopolize you."

Otabek laughs. "I don't think that's possible. Chris is going to do what Chris is going to do, which I assume means the entire Swedish ski team."

Yuri makes a face.

"Hey,” Otabek says, gently chiding. “Chris's choices are his choices. They don't really impact me if he's telling me what I need to know to make my own choices."

"Why are you telling me this?

"Well, for one thing you asked."

"Ugh, fuck you."

"For another,” Otabek says, unfazed as always by Yuri’s petulance. “I like him. A lot. And I'm hoping... I'm hoping the world is going to give me everything I want and not make me choose."

"I'm not going to make you choose," Yuri says. "But that Olympic gold is fucking mine. Just so we're clear. Also put me on your fucking calendar. Before the ski team invites you along. Or something." He doesn’t want to think about that. Otabek can do whatever he wants, but Yuri wants to spend exactly zero mental cycles picturing the person he really wants to fuck going to...an orgy, or whatever it is Chris gets up to. 

  
  


**Geneva, Switzerland**

Chris drives down the mountain and towards Geneva with less than half a plan, unsure if he's going to go to a bar and flirt the old fashioned way or if he'll just swipe through an app. An app is less work and virtually guarantees some sort of hookup, but the odds of it being what he needs it to be are a lot lower. He hates that he needs it to be anything.

Under other circumstances, this would be absolutely a subject for a speaker phone chat with Victor or Luca, but oh these are not those times. He and Luca need space, at least for a day or two. And he and Victor aren't even a thing that exists anymore, haven't been for over a year. One day, it will be years, and Victor will just be a story that he used to tell.

"Like my skating career," Chris mutters. "And goddamn everything else."

Bar it is then, because if he can't be charming enough to get someone into bed, he probably shouldn't be trying to drown his sorrows with fucking anyway.

***

That sense of things doesn't really leave him when he gets to the bar, not because he's trying and failing to close the deal but because he's being  _ picky _ . Which, honestly, he should probably be picky more often. That would definitely result in a decrease in not-exactly-great nights and also having ex-not-really-boyfriends like Victor.

Alas, this is not the time for standards.

Although, in the end, that's what makes the night finally work. Because someone has been watching him flirt and lose interest and even flat out turn down propositions for hours. And wants to know what his deal is. And asks him, as some sort of trial balloon, if he's a  _ tease. _

It would be annoying, except the guy is handsome, doesn't look anything like Victor or Luca, and is taller than him. They're never taller than him. And Chris really wants to be pushed around a little right now.

"Don't be scary, don't be an asshole. I just need someone to tell me I'm good right now, and I'm willing to work for it."

"And all those others didn't go for it?"

"Didn't get that far," Chris says with a smile and a shrug. "They couldn't even be bothered to call me on my nonsense."

***

_ Hi _

The text from Otabek came in overnight, but Chris, occupied with his own diversions, doesn't see it until late the next morning. 

_ Hi?  _ he replies, groggily trying to work out what time it is now in Seoul. When even is the exhibition?

A response comes quickly, though.

_ I'm sorry to bother you, but I had a question. _

_ You're never a bother _ , Chris fires back. It's flirtatious on autopilot, but he really does mean it. For all they've exchanged maybe three rounds of emails six weeks ago. Since then, he's given Otabek the space he had asked for.

_ Yes, but I asked you for space and now I'm texting you and I don't want you to feel like I'm playing games with you. _

"How are you real?" Chris says aloud. What he types is,  _ You're the one who asked for space, so you're the one who gets to reach out when and if you're ready. What's up? _

Is this going to be about Yuri? He really hopes it's going to be about Yuri. And that it's good.

_ It's about Yuri _ . 

Well, okay, that's half of it at least.

_ What's going on with Yuri _ ? Chris wonders if he's going to have to drag this out of Otabek line by line. He doesn't mind if he does. After...everything, first with Victor and most recently with Luca and Mishi, having somebody to talk with is just what his sore heart needs.

There's a long pause before Otabek replies, and Chris can just imagine him, sitting tucked out of the way somewhere, maybe at exhibition practice, biting the inside of his cheek in that way that he does when he's trying to think of the right words.

_ We kissed last night _ , the words finally appear.

_ And _ ?

_ And what? _

_ Well you're texting me about it, so I assume there's something else to it. _

_ Not really. I just thought you should know. Also it may happen again today and I wanted to check in with you about that. _

_ You don't need my permission, you know. _

_ I know. But I wanted to know how you felt. _

_ I feel like you should kiss that demon every moment you possibly can and then come back and tell me all about it. _

_...You want details? _

_ Don't kiss and tell anything you're not comfortable with. But do I want to gossip with you that you finally got to mack on the boy you've been pining after for a year, YES. _

_ Oh _ .

Yes, Chris thinks, fondly mockingly to himself.  _ Oh _ .

_ It’s been very hard not to take him to bed. _

_ Why didn’t you?  _ Chris hopes that wasn’t on his account because then they are going to have to have a talk.

...

...

...

Christ doesn’t want to snap at Otabek for not making words, especially in what’s at least his third language, but the dots of typing and erasing are slightly trying.

_ He’s still too young. _

_ You made out with him.  _ Chris doesn’t think the three - he thinks it’s three, maybe a little less even - years between them is really as sketchy as all that, but he certainly appreciates that Otabek is at least trying to err on the side of caution.

_ Yeah, and then realized he’d never been kissed before. _

_ Oh no.  _ It makes sense, because of everything about Yuri’s life and circumstances but it still makes him gasp. Otabek is officially having the weirdest season of any of them.

_ Oh yes. And I could ask you for space and assume you’d be okay, but Yuri’s grown an inch since I last saw him and has no idea which way is up. Can’t contribute further. _

_ Yeah. Good call. Are you dying?  _ Chris types back on a whim, not sure Otabek will play along and actually gossip instead of merely informing him of facts.

_ Dyyyying,  _ c omes the reply.

_ Do you want to hear about what I did last night? _

_ I don’t know, do I? _

That’s interesting and makes Chris glad he asked. It’s fine if Otabek doesn’t want to know about these things, but he’d rather find out about the tone and level of drama under any such reluctance sooner rather than later.

_ Watched the GPF, congrats btw, I saw new things in your skates. Then my best friend told me he was getting married, so after being suitably happy for other people, I decided I needed to be suitably happy myself. _

The dots appear again, and again Chris tenses for eventual drama.

_ Did it turn out how you wanted? _

_ Yes _

_ Good. I want to be jealous? Uncomfortable? But mostly all I can picture is you having a really good time. _

Chris exhales.  _ -That- pleases me. If you don’t want to hear these things I can keep them to myself but... _

_ You were testing me. _

_ A little. Sorry. _

_ I told Yuri we could have a date at the Olympics as you wouldn’t monopolize all my time because the Swedish ski team exists. _

Chris cackles.  _ You’re divine.  _

_ Thank Pichit. _

_ He wasn’t discreet at all, was he? _

_ Nope. _

At some point in the conversation Chris sends Otabek a selfie. Nothing provocative, really, although it’s clear he’s still lying in bed and from the state of his hair and his mouth quite obviously had a very good night.

_ Is that your place? _

_ No. Hotel. _

_ Why? _

_ I live in the middle of nowhere without any actual humans to hook up with. Also home is for friends and family, not casual stuff. _

_ You don’t seem like someone who would live in the middle of nowhere. _

_ I’m full of surprises. You’ll have to come see it sometime. _

_ I'd be honored _ , Otabek replies. He then returns the selfie favor. 

Chris had been right: He is at the rink. The stands are empty, but a few figures are on the ice behind him. He looks a little pale, but then, nobody ever looks good under rink lighting without costume or makeup. 

_ Exhibition practice _ ?

_ Yeah. I should go soon, Yuri will be looking for me. _

Chris has the impulse to type  _ give him a kiss for me _ but knows, almost before the thought is even finished, how wildly not the thing to do that would be.

_ Skate well tonight. I'm glad you texted me _ , he writes instead and hopes that, somehow, Otabek understands the depth of the feeling he can't quite put into words yet.

_ Thank you _ .

**Seoul**

No sooner has Otabek tucked his phone back into his pocket than Yuri appears from around a corner. His scowl is in place, but it softens, Otabek notices with equal parts amusement and fondness, at the sight of him.

"There you are," he huffs. He holds out his hand. Otabek takes it and lets Yuri pull him to his feet. 

Otabek knows down to the minute how much time they have before they're expected to be on the ice for whatever group number is going to be happening. It's not enough time to drag Yuri away and find some place quiet to be together, and he knows that too, so he won't, but he's never been so tempted by anything in his life.

Just a few more hours, and they can be done. And then there will be just a few more hours before they both get back on planes and don't see each other again until February. The thought is almost enough to make Otabek reconsider his resolution about staying on task, but he's never had enough resources. He's made do anyway. This will just have to be the same.

"Do you know what you're doing with your hair for tonight?" he asks. 

Yuri squints at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

Otabek gives into temptation enough to let himself push a stray bit of hair behind Yuri's ear. "If you don't, I could do it for you."

"What the fuck do you know about hair that you can't just shove gel into and go?"

"My cousins." 

"Ahhh, always the cousins." Yuri rolls his eyes. But he looks pleased, if still a little bit startled, when he says "Yeah, fine, do whatever."

***

Hairties and hairspray and combs are in abundance whenever figure skaters gather, and Otabek manages to snag some from some of the Canadian girls he used to train with without too many questions or knowing looks. They settle into the stands, Yuri in the seat in front of him, and the angle's shit but it's the best they can do and still be at hand when they're needed.

Otabek doesn't get fancy, but he's learned from his cousins how very essential it is to sometimes just sit and get your hair brushed. So that's what he does for Yuri. 

"Is this your idea of foreplay?" Yuri mutters at one point. The snark is marred somewhat but he fact that his eyes are only halfway open.

"I don't know, is it working?"

"Asshole."

Otabek chuckles.

**Geneva**

_ Thank you,  _ Chris texts Phichit.

_ What did I do and was it awesome? _

_ Just had a chat with Otabek. _

_ Ohhhhhhhhhh. He totally ratted me out didn’t he? _

_ Uhhuh. _

_ Oh well. Also, with any luck, you’re going to owe me even more favors soon. _

_ What’s that supposed to mean? _

_ Ugh, catch up on IG while I’m busy fixing your life. _

Chris doesn’t really think his life is broken or that Pichit should be taking it upon himself to fix it and weighs whether he wants to know more or much much less. Mostly, he needs to drag himself out of bed, get cleaned up and go to the rink. It’s time to get very very serious about something other than his dick.


End file.
